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But if consumers are invited to play a part in the story of a brand, what happens when they subvert it? Throughout the history of fashion, consumers have had an irritating habit of sweeping aside carefully constructed marketing strategies and bending brands to their own will. It is doubtful, for example, that Dr. Martens encouraged the skinhead movement to adopt its shiny black boots. To its credit, however, the brand does not try to bury the association. Its website has its own explanation: according to its narrative, the original skinhead was a ‘multicultural, politically broad-minded and fashion-conscious individual’ with a liking for ‘reggae, soul and ska’. It was only later that the look was ‘hijacked by right-wing racists’.

Burberry faces a similar problem in the United Kingdom. Some time ago, it joined the pantheon of brands adopted by label-conscious but not particularly upmarket British youth, notably soccer fans. As a direct corollary, and most damagingly of all, Burberry – and particularly its iconic check pattern – has become associated with ‘chavs’. The etymology of the term ‘chav’ is unclear – theories range from the Romany word for ‘child’ to the straightforward acronym of ‘Council Housed and Violent’ – but it has been widely adopted by the British media to describe a certain type of downmarket consumer. Chavscum.co.uk, the website that first identified the group, uses the definition ‘Britain’s peasant underclass’. In the section of the site headed ‘How to spot a chav’, the first item is a baseball cap in Burberry check. The plaid fabric has become so closely associated with hooliganism that some pubs and clubs have instructed door staff to refuse entry to young people wearing it. An article in The Guardian (‘The two faces of Burberry’, 15 April 2004) cites a picture of a soap opera actress ‘clad top to toe in Burberry check: the hat, the skirt, the scarf, her baby dressed up to match’ as the moment when Burberry became ‘the ultimate symbol of nouveau riche naff’.

The ‘chav’ association clearly goes against the grain of Burberry’s status as a luxury brand. It also threatens to unravel the work Rose Marie Bravo has done to rebuild the label since joining the company as chief executive in 1997. Making the brand younger and more accessible has left it open to re-interpretation.
And yet Burberry has emerged relatively unscathed. For a start, ‘chavs’ are a purely British tribe, and the UK market accounts for only 15 per cent of the brand’s sales. In Europe and Asia, Burberry has successfully maintained its official positioning as English, quirky and fashionable – a ‘classic with a twist’, à la Paul Smith. It has also toned down the trademark plaid, now using it on only five per cent of its clothing, as opposed to 20 per cent a couple of years ago. Bravo told The Guardian, ‘We had this issue of logoism that was rampant across the industry. But we knew that these things run in cycles, you can have too much of a good thing. We moved on, and we got into a mode of being more discreet with the logo.’ The company has also placed more focus on its check-free upmarket label, Burberry Prorsum, which is a step above the largest range, Burberry London, in both positioning and price. The current face of Burberry Prorsum is the aristocratic English model Stella Tennant.

Burberry’s non-executive director, Philip Bowman (the chief executive of Allied Domecq), skilfully handled the potentially difficult issue by at first laughing it off – brandishing a copy of a book about chav culture during a press conference – and then suggesting that most of the Burberry items worn by the clan were fakes. He told the world, ‘I think the genesis of it is rather sad. In this country there is not an insignificant amount of counterfeit product at the low end.’ (‘Bowman keeps the chavs in check’, Financial Times, 22 October 2004.) In short, Burberry has trodden a delicate line between nonchalant acceptance and ingenuous denial of the phenomenon. In any case, the chavs have done little to undermine the company’s performance. At the time of writing, it had just announced a year-on-year sales rise of 14 per cent.

Lacoste has faced the same challenge in its native France, where the prestigious sportswear with the crocodile logo has been adopted as a uniform by tough teenagers from the banlieues, or suburbs. In 1925 tennis ace René Lacoste was standing in front of a shop window in Boston with Pierre Guillou, captain of the French tennis team, shortly before a vital qualifying match for the Davis Cup. ‘If I win,’ Lacoste said, indicating a crocodile-skin suitcase, ‘you can buy me one of those.’ He lost the match, but an American journalist who had heard about the bet reported that ‘the young Lacoste [did not win] his crocodile-skin suitcase, but he fought like a real crocodile’. From then on, Lacoste wore a crocodile embroidered on the breast pocket of his shirts. And when he launched a range of sportswear in 1930, it naturally bore the crocodile logo). Today, more than 30 million Lacoste products are sold annually in over 110 countries, generating revenue in excess of €800 million.

With its emphasis on quality and its roots in the exclusive domain of tennis, Lacoste had all the ingredients it needed to seduce upmarket consumers – and it did so, for decades. But when French hip-hop fans began casting around for a home-grown version of the sports brands worn by their American counterparts, they naturally turned to Lacoste. The logo implied performance, taste, and money to burn. Plus, what could be more rebellious than that snappy little croc? At first, Lacoste observed this turn of events with grave concern, fearing that it would lose its traditional older, wealthier French client base. Soon, though, it recognized an opportunity – one that, after a false start, it utilized with considerable subtlety. While a blatant attempt to target these new consumers might have succeeded in distancing both loyal customers and suburban kids – whose very fascination for the brand lay in the fact that that they had ‘hijacked’ it – Lacoste adopted an oblique approach. It used the trend as a springboard to rejuvenate the brand. It hired a new designer, Christophe Lemaire (formerly of Thierry Mugler and Christian Lacroix), who introduced a range of ‘elegantly functional’ clothing: ‘Though Lemaire was not allowed to touch the polo shirt – the company still regards it as a perfect classic – he used it as a reference point for his collection of sharp pullovers, hip track jackets, soft pants and sexy pleated skirts.’ (‘Courtoisie on the court’, Newsweek, 27 May 2002.) Lacoste showed on the catwalks in New York and Paris, and opened smartly minimalist concept stores in France, the United States, Germany and Japan. Cult film director Wong Kar Wai was brought in to direct a globally-screened commercial in the languorous style of his movie In the Mood for Love, raising the brand’s profile among culturally savvy consumers while simultaneously catering to the important Asian market. Even the crocodile logo was given a subtle retouching by the design agency Seenk, becoming simpler and more streamlined.
Bernard Lacoste, company chairman and the founder’s oldest son, refers to the strategy as ‘evolution rather than revolution’. The brand regained control of its identity, while giving a ‘merci’ nod to the influential group that had helped perk up its flagging relevance. As one French lifestyle magazine noted, ‘In the past regarded as little more than vandals, the “crew” from the high-rise blocks have become sought-after opinion leaders, whose cultural and stylistic codes are scrutinized by trend-trackers. In short, they are the people who define tomorrow’s fashions.’ (‘Comment Lacoste a rendu accros les ados de banlieue’, Technikart, 28 May 2002.)

It’s certainly not the last time a luxury brand will be forced to tackle the issue of over-accessibility: at the time of writing, there are reports that Dior intends to drop some of its lower-priced accessories, such as the bracelets sported by teenage girls from the Paris banlieues, in order to re-establish its exclusivity. A myth is a fragile entity, easily tarnished.

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